relocated
a priest
was relocated
to direct sin
at a little school
down the street.
he won’t confess
but he’ll rip
your sacred
heart out.
All month I’ve had a note
to write about The Moon
(the tarot card, not the satellite)
and every day some other poem
has shoved its way onto the page
instead.
Today at last I write
about The weird and wonderful
Moon, with its giant crayfish
(that I always think of as a lobster)
and path that leads from water
to mountains that look like waves
into the sky between howling canids
(both wild and domestic)
and stone towers of enormous
scale beneath a moon whose brow
seems furrowed with thought
or effort.
Today I am the lobster
(why not just own it)
crawling onto land past animal
nature and civilized construct
into the sky to help the moon
dream the world.
I realized i was
emptied by
gOD’S plan and his
comfort in destruction when
my fingernails looked more like microchips and
my veins more like Ethernet cables.
i have Chosen,
and Yes, Yes it is My choice,
to believe in gOD again.
my DNA is code, binary.
Zeros and ones that Leave me 0 to 1,
living on the losing side.
i Long for network spirituality, connection to God.
Is my sentience an illusion?
Is my brain cooked, sensors fried, factory rejected?
Will god still take me to heaven when computers can bleed?
30 poems written but my goal was much less
some that I wrote were decent, some like myself a mess
I enjoyed my daily ritual to sit down and to write
will I keep it up, I think I just might
I enjoyed reading the wonderful poems that you did share
your words were beautful and written with such care
thanks to those who took the time to reply with words so sweet
you really encouraged me to write a poem every day which was no easy feat
the day is looming
finally, the only way out is to jump
I cheer myself on
whispers, mostly
encouraging myself to rediscover
all that’s left
behind
my fears are subsiding
truth has a way of revelation
to know is to accept
or at least is a key to the beginning
the beginning of finally
As one storm rolls on,
the next surely brews
to challenge a future dawn.
But the friendships that I choose
soften destructive wind to breeze
while mending gash and bruise.
We’ve created such soothing memories,
cherished moments of serenity-
shelters that stand with unshakable ease.
Soon we will celebrate our perennity
even with those who must move on,
a rainbowed group of love and amenity.
Through heartbreak and heartache, we’ll be there.
Through death and loss, we’ll be there.
Through physical injury, we’ll be there.
Through sickness, we’ll be there.
Through times apart, we’ll be there.
Through oppressive studies, we’ll be there
Through tests passed or failed, we’ll be there
Through workplace woes, we’ll be there
Through whatever other storm life can throw,
we will be there.
Though the rains may try to flood and drown,
though the winters threaten to ice and freeze,
nothing can topple this shelter I have found
because with friends like these,
how can I ever truly get knocked down?
And so I pray we hold together forever, oh please.
LexPoMo whispers, a call to the page,
June 30, 2024
Loss has many forms:
someone is taken,
someone forgets where they are.
Maybe it’s the incremental
creep of love disappearing,
or the false sky with its broken gray,
or the path to darkness that leads
away from the life you’ve lived.
Loss can be piled up like limbs
missing in action, or take prisoner
then awarded with silver medals.
It’s not the same as original sin,
nor is it a component of good & evil,
but more like the air
after a quick lurch of nesting crows
Too soon I think, the thunder has rolled through, passed me by.
Static electricity drains from the air
and the hairs on my arms can lay down flat again.
Summer heat closes back in around the disappearing tunnel made by a June tempest so great it slowed the whole earth’s orbit for a little while.
The sky is clearing, but I feel like I’m losing. Flat again.
Bronte turns back into a regular girl.
I’ve been chasing storms
learning how lightly to touch a heavy-laden cloud to release its cooling cargo.
Just one fingertip, maybe two, a tiny pinch,
any more force and the bubble bursts, the deluge splashes away, uncatchable.
I’m left drenched, but not quenched
I’ve been practicing
holding lightning rods, flying kites, trying keys
from my rooftop on tiptoes
amniotic and emerging
trusting the wind to catch me up.
I think I became the lightning for one bright moment
basking in the glow of explosion.
The sky is clearing, and I feel like I’m losing.
Tomorrow, storm season will be over.
(I offer my thanks to every poet who has shared their work this month; I’ve been entirely inspired, challenged, and moved. This has been a wonderful time of learning and growth and I’ll miss the daily rush of reading your poems and sharing mine!)
